blacklisted pretty
by Naisumi
Summary: If you've noticed those kids in the corner of the day, unseen by most and ignored by all, then you'd know what it means to hate the world. (part 1/?) (brotherhood fic--angst, slash in future parts) R&R, please!!


Title: blacklisted pretty 

Part: 1/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: R 

Pairings: not determined right now 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Uh. ... ... Yes :D 

Warnings: Angst, UBERsymbolism :D Profundity (I guess?)--all the usual. Oh, and: STNH! STNH! STNH! (Season Two Never Happened) _And_, in the two-for-one deal we've got right now, SThNH! SThNH! SthNH! (Season Three Never Happened) 

  


Notes: After a brief period where I thought that my writing was absolute crap, I've finally decided to try writing again lol 

This fic idea just wouldn't leave me alone. Don't worry, as soon as I'm done being bombarded with DM/HP ideas and blacklisted pretty is more or less done, you'll get to return to your regularly-scheduled programming of TATCL and Could've Been (; 

  


Additional Notes: Um. None that I can think of. And...yes. This is, hopefully, going to be the megasaga that Simple Tensions tried to be but didn't succeed at:D 

Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


-- 

  


His feet slipped slightly, the notched newspaper-white rubber of his soles gripping the pebbled gravel only slightly. A broken bottle gleamed emerald-yellow as a car zoomed past, a pounding beat of rap music rattling his ribcage before it disappeared into the stretch of night-shaded gray behind him. On a whim, he leaned down, scooped up some gravel, tossed it with a quick jerk of his wrist at the gnarled metal railing to his left, and listened to the hollow pink-pank-pinking of it echoing in the wind. He bowed his head, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he drew in a trembling breath between numbed lips, his chest aching at the invading cool air. 

Scott turned his head slightly, peeking over his shoulder at the expanse of city lights gleaming in the distance, like a valley of rose-hued fireflies; a snapshot of brightness, now still with time--a flickering well of glitter suspended in darkness. He sighed, his breath misting as a curl of opaque paleness against the chill of night, and wrapped his arms about himself, his hands clenching convulsively about the thin cloth of his meager shirt. More cars passed, their headlights piercing his eyes with their brightness, imprinting their existence as pinpricks of light in the sanctity of his vision. He bent at the waist, the darkness drawing near, almost reverently gradual, and he was alone again save for the occasional spin of wheels on asphalt beside him, the gust of air that nearly toppled his quavering figure. Collapsing inward to the waning warmth of his body, he desperately tried to ward of the permeating coldness of the night, his shoulders steeled against the convulsive shudders of his frame. 

Scott leaned against the railing, hissing slightly as the near-frozen metal stung his flesh through the flimsy layers of clothing he had on, arms still crossed across the stomach, his sleeves pulled over the knuckles of his pale, shaking hands. The sound of gravel crunching under heavy footsteps reached his ears only past the veil of apathy that was now drawn over his mind in a haze of grayness, heralded by the surreality of the situation. As if he were removed from his shivering body, he glanced around, trying to draw his chin up to see better, but failing to do so as it dug sharp above his collarbone, refusing to obey his orders. 

"Scott," the voice was low, pained. 

He looked up, drew in another ragged breath as he mumbled, "Lance," in return, his tongue dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

Lance crouched beside him, his figure dark, eyes darker, mouth set in the thin line of a tight, cold scowl. 

"Lookit you," he said, fingers fidgeting against the palms of his cut-off gloves of black, as if itching to either reach over to Scott, smooth the cold from the shivering boy, or punch his lights out. 

"Lance, I--" Scott managed, his teeth gritted, a flash of despairing anger flaring in his mind like a dying firework of neon red. 

"D'you understand now?" Lance interrupted. He stood, towering uncomfortably above the other boy. Funny, Scott thought--he hadn't remembered falling towards the ground, his knees aching from the freezing chill and the sharpness of the gravel digging into his skin through the stiff cloth of his jeans. 

"I always understood," Scott said quietly, willing Lance to either piss off or actually help. He wanted Lance to do the latter--_needed_ him to, really, but he didn't expect it to happen. Not realistically. 

A snort of disbelief was his reply. 

"No, you didn't," Lance's voice was thick with disgust. 

"You're just a liar, Summers. Just like all the rest of them." 

"Li--" Scott struggled, trying to get to his feet, but failing as his legs shuddered at his pathetic efforts, sharp spikes of incessant paint biting into his fingers as he gripped the metal railing. He shuffled backward slightly, all the while shaking. He couldn't stop. 

"_Liar_," he whispered, eyes betrayed past the welling crimson before him, his voice rising a little, then falling, as if something within him had just _given_ ever so slightly. 

"Why are you calling _me_ the liar?" 

  
  


  


  


Autumn was always discernable when it came to Bayville. The climes of the Midwestern and northern states seemed to carry the stench of colorful decay more prevalently than elsewhere; the faint breath of winter winding entwined readily amongst the whispered October syllables that were so unhesitatingly uttered by knobby tree branches eager to shed their burdens of fickle green. The graylight of the skies partook easily enough, blending into one enormous horizon of blank perpetual twilight with the sandy grit of sidewalk that caught underfoot at the worn soles of sneakers, ratty shoelaces half-tied and tattered. Drained of energy expended in the luxuriant splendor of summer, the sun played solitaire with the clouds, too spent of brightness to do much else but shine weakly and rising a little later with every passing day; a senescent specter of light engulfing the world with paleness at only half past seven. The wind now played havoc without the supervision of warmth, finding existence worthwhile in tripping up bystanders and weaving its way into a tangible clumsiness, manifest in hurried footsteps and windbreakers firmly wrapped about to ward off the oncoming chill. 

The world, having settled into the year and not making it quite up and over the hill, was more than prepared for the steam of warm pumpkin pies; orange crepe paper; streamers, mummifying streetlamps downtown and playing feather boas for the gowns of mask-party flyers. In passing mention, downtown was especially prepared, painted over with the make up of festive advertisements and decorations, and sprinkled with sere leaves that swarmed about iron grating gutters like confetti spread haphazardly. 

It was now, between and amongst stores and scurrying crowd, that Lance Alvers decided to take a walk downtown, as if fancying himself to be a normal human being, not the broody outcast of a spectator that he, in truth, really was. He might as well have been, as his jaw was set in a scowl even when doing the simplest things, like mailing a letter, or getting up to close a bus window. Lance did seem perpetually in a bad mod, but today, he was on a somewhat holy mission: to purge his anger. 

_That jackass,_ Lance thought hotly, hands crammed deep into the pockets of his tattered jeans. The chill autumn air pervaded even the thick material of his hoodie and he abandoned his trek across the chipped, flaking sidewalks in favor of the sheltering trees in the park. 

_Why the fuck does he haveta be such an asshole all the fucking time?_

It wasn't even that his housemates--one in particular on this gloomy day--did anything out of malice to him, neither now nor any other time. It was just that they got so irritating sometimes; he just needed to clear the frustrating noise in his head. He had always been like that--unable to cope with the company of others for long periods of time. Company got annoying--intrusive, pesky. _Company_ was unwelcome half the time. More than half, really. Half the time, Lance was ignoring whoever he was with, for the sake of his sanity and their safety, and the other half was spent either actually, God forbid, _interacting_ or being remarkably easy to upset. As a child, his second-grade teacher had yelled at him for being temperamental and his parents had yelled at him for being stupid and he had yelled back about how dumb and lazy and _hella-_son_uvabitch_ adults were. His mother had been aghast and his father had smacked him across the face and demanded where he learned such language. The bus driver, Lance had informed them, but they'd just grounded him anyway. They had been annoyed at how unsociable he was and he had been annoyed at them _because_ he was unsociable. The situation was doomed from the start. 

Pietro, Todd, and Freddy weren't all _that_ bad, Lance allowed--never admitted. Lance Alvers never _admits_ to things. They pestered him occasionally, but generally left him to his own devices when he wasn't in the mood. In fact, if Lance ever found in him to acknowledge it, they were the closest thing to friends he'd ever had. In what _sense_ they were friends was not clear, but Lance felt comfortable relinquishing that title to them--that is to say, he had no real opinion about their being 'friends.' The way he saw it, there was no point in trying to decipher relationships, or much else, for that matter. It wasn't that Lance didn't realize that there was middle ground between enemy and friend; it wasn't even that he had become jaded to the point of bitterness. What it was--in the simplest terms with stark realism--in fact, was that Lance no longer gave a damn. 

Beneath his feet, the brittle curls of dead leaves rustled like the ghosts of ancient trees, exhumed from the earth to bear away the recently deceased. He was walking aimlessly, and he knew it--there was no other way, though; only time would stop the angry ripple in the tide of his conscious mind. It was too dangerous to go back before he was calmed. 

_He'll just piss me off more,_ Lance thought, a scowl indelicately etched on his face, wondering listlessly for the umpteenth time, _What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?_

Lance didn't expect an answer. He didn't even care if he got one. All he knew was that thinking about it only made the anger worse in a senseless, pointless way. He shook his head, muttering an irritated, 'goddammit,' under his breath and sped up, fast exiting the sparse park, eyes trained on the ground. He wandered, directionless, his purposeful stride devoid of intent. 

Then, he found himself at the mansion. 

Xavier's Institute for the fucking Gifted goddamned Students of a better, brighter future. A sneer tugged at his lips. The building loomed beyond steel-wrought gates; the icy skeleton he now clenched with white-knuckled hands, cut-off gloves offering no protection against the bitter chill for his curled fingers. Lance glowered, eyes dark, and tried not to grip the twisted bars of metal too hard, the chill of fall nipping at his skin like a transposed blade. 

The anger was back. 

  
  


  


  


_Dear Diary, _

Today, I lost my virginity. Yeah, I know it's not the smartest thing to do, but it doesn't seem to matter as much as I thought it would. God, they'd be so disappointed in me, I think. But for some reason, I don't mind as much as I should. I wonder if this is what they mean by the "dehumanizing" process. Is it? Am I dehumanized? That's kind of an ironic word. "Dehumanizing"--I think what they mean is "mechanization," anyway. But then again, mechanization means the same thing as dehumanizing, doesn't it? 

That's alright. I should check it out at the library; I'm interested. 

God, they'd be so ashamed of me. 

  


  
  


  


It was nearly dark out, the windowpanes dimmed by twilight, dining room lights casting an aged-yellow shadow on the linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. Perched on the counter next to a burnt-out toaster, Pietro Maximoff drummed his fingers impatiently on the imitation-granite countertop. He swung his legs. 

"Where the hell is Lance?" he complained, kicking his rubber-sole heels against the cupboard underneath him. Behind him, the bold neon-green-on-black digital clock on the stove read 5:57. 

"Who knows," Fred Dukes was, in contrast to Pietro's barely-contained restlessness, content to sit undisturbed on the sagging couch in the living room, watching TV. The couch was the color of swamp scum, had little to no springs (those of which remained were fast fading), and had stuffing oozing out the seams like puss. If you were to lean back, the entire thing would droop backwards with you; if you were to shift slightly forward to grab a handful of stale popcorn, it would creak bloody hell at you. It protested the mere notion of movement and found now means to provide resistance. It barely had any form, at that, and resembled a greenish-mud-colored chunk of felt and cotton and steel and polyester-mesh that was plopped lethargically in front of the old television set rather than a proper couch. 

It was the singularly most comfortable piece of furniture they owned. 

"Wherever he is, though, he'd better bring back dinner." 

Pietro snorted at that, as if it were the most absurd idea he'd ever heard of in his life. 

"Like Lance is going to remember something like that," he hopped off the counter and grabbed the plastic cream-colored phone that was clinging, crooked, to the kitchen wall amidst the peeling wallpaper. It was floral print. Pietro scrunched up his nose in distaste, rapped his knuckles on the partition separating the living room from the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb. Rhetorically, he wondered aloud, 

"What should we order?" 

"_Can_ we order?" Fred didn't bother to lift his eyes from the hubbub on the TV. It was a soap opera. Spanish. He didn't understand a word of it. 

"I don't see why not," the younger boy said a bit haughtily, complete with shifting his weight to one foot. "It's Lance's problem if our budget doesn't cover this. I'm not going hungry just because he's a lazy slob who's too irresponsible to get food." 

"Lance never gets food," was his succinct and puzzled reply, as Freddy was no doubt surprised at the mention of Lance and the word 'responsibility' in the same sentence. 

Fred thought about it, then amended, "Unless there's nothin' else in the fridge." 

"That's _because_ Lance is a stupid _son_ of a bitch," Pietro said smartly, punctuating his emphasized word with an especially loud rap of his knuckles. He didn't seem to be too concerned whether Lance _was_ a lazy slob or a stupid son of a bitch, though, as he was more noncommittal than anything else. 

"Now, what the hell should we order?" 

"How 'bout pizza?" Fred suggested, turning, as he was now much more interested in the subject at hand. He sure as hell wasn't going to be stuck eating some vegetarian-tofu trash that Pietro would undoubtedly order--just out of spite, probably, too. No way in _hell_. 

"I'm tired of pizza," Pietro waved it off, "What about Chinese food?" 

"I got sick last time," Fred disagreed with a grimace at the memory, "Mexican?" 

Pietro aimed a disbelieving look at him, "You can't take Chinese but you want to try Mexican? Italian." 

"I can _take_ Chinese, but the cheapest place 'round here doesn't have anythin' good. And that Italian place sells crap--Thai?" 

"_Hell_, no. Japanese?" 

"Japanese? Why the hell would we get _Japanese_? Greek?" 

"Ha--I don't think they even _have_ a Greek restaurant here, Freddy. TGIFriday's?" 

"They don't have takeout, d'they? How 'bout KFC?" 

"Ugh. That shit's too greasy. Arby's?" 

"Do we _have_ an Arby's? Wendy's, maybe?" 

"They're sanitary but their fries taste like crap." 

"I _like_ their fries." 

By this time, Pietro was giving him a rather severe _look_. It was his multi-purpose look, which was meant to convey disgust, irritation, slight amusement, and superiority. 

"_Subway_." 

Fred rolled his eyes. 

"I--" 

"They have _chicken teriyaki_, Freddy. You can't tell me you don't like _chicken teriyaki_." 

Fred turned a critical eye at him. 

"Bob Evan's?" 

"Are they even _open_?" 

He made a face, "I guess not." 

"_Chicken_ teriyaki," Pietro was grinning, "Freddy?" 

"Ergh," Fred made a face. 

"Chicken _teriyaki_." 

"I heard ya the first time." He could tell Pietro was teasing him. 

"I--but, it's _health food_, Pietro!" 

"No, it's _good_ food that just _happens_ to be good for you. A foreign concept, I know," Pietro was still grinning. 

"Shut up." 

"Subway it is?" 

"Why not," Fred grumbled. The couch creaked. 

"Great. I'll run over now." 

"Get me a Coke." 

"Coke? But Pepsi's better." 

"No, Pepsi tastes like shit." 

"_What_? No, it doesn't! Pepsi's _way_ better than Coke. Coke is for druggies." 

"And Pepsi tastes like shit." 

"Whatever--you don't know _what_ the hell you're saying." 

"What?! Who're _you_ to talk? You..." 

With a click, the phone was back on the receiver that was hanging crooked on the wall. The clock on the stove read 5:57.   


  


  


  


The blood rushed to his head and his vision blurred, the plain, night-frosted window meeting his eyes, reflectively. He could see himself, a splotch of blue against the lemon yellow of streetlights in the distance. It didn't help matters. 

Kurt Wagner was in a peculiar mood on this particular night. He had been hard at thinking, his mind slightly distorted through the pounding surge of blood that swam before him. It made him think about things that he usually avoided--like how every time he thought about something, someone else was thinking the exact same thing. He didn't find it comforting, really; only slightly horrific. What was it supposed to mean? That individuality was worth nothing? Did it mean that in speaking language, nothing was original anymore? 

He wondered if he were to imagine something totally bizarre--perhaps, a purple-colored pineapple or another idea equally as ridiculous--if someone else had already thought of it. It bothered him--worse than telepathy did; it was as if someone accidentally tripped into the inner sanctum of his thoughts and mussed things into disarray without meaning to. It was as if the world really _was_ composed of chaos. 

Language was another tricky subject. He wondered if he'd been discarded in a dumpster, if that would make him think differently--in terms of 'fuck' and 'shit' and 'damn.' He had been raised in a proper, moral family with proper, moral values--like saying 'please' when asking for something; holding open doors for whoever might be following; never saying swear words. Swear words were bitter on his tongue, but, at the rise of adolescence, he found the bitterness startling, pleasant. It seemed rather adult, which, in turn, seemed rather juvenile. He wasn't sure what to think. 

The word he used most was 'crap,' but he'd heard people like Lance Alvers and Duncan Matthews use the word 'crap,' too. Of course, it was strange to be disturbed by that--after all, everyone was speaking the same language. Somehow, though, Kurt found the context of the word upsetting--just like 'ass.' As a word, it didn't matter--an a, two s's. But with that one word had come words like 'asshole' and 'asswipe' and 'jackass.' It made him feel dirty saying 'shit' or 'ass' when he thought of that--the derogatory, demeaning use of them. It made him wonder if there were any differences between him and the jerks-assholes-jackasses of the world. 

In his peculiar mood, he came to thinking about how words sounded--how they felt when they rolled off his tongue. He wondered how people came up with the word 'apple' to describe the polished red fruit--how such a _round_-feeling word could convey the feel of the crispness of the taste. He wondered how words could sound harsh--how the words, 'Shut up' could sound sinister--sibilant at the beginning; curt, commanding, rejecting at the end. He wondered how words could make someone nauseous--'freak.' 

Shuddering, Kurt tried to stop thinking, and found himself unable to--not in his peculiar mood on this particular night with the streetlamps outside. 

He closed his eyes.   


  


  


  


_Dear Diary, _

Today, I lost my virginity. Yeah, I know it's not the smartest thing to do, and I feel so awful. God, they'd be so disappointed in me, I think. But for some reason, I couldn't say no. I remember hearing something about this--the "dehumanizing" process. They say that that's what it would be--but is it? Am I dehumanized? That's kind of an ironic word. "Dehumanizing"--maybe they mean "mechanization." But then again, mechanization means the same thing as dehumanizing, doesn't it? 

That's alright. I don't really care. I'd go to the library and check it out, but I don't think I want to. 

God, they'd be so ashamed of me. 

  
  


  


  


Glancing at his watch, the snapped strap stapled together at the edge of his wrist, Lance drew in a heaving breath. Blood stained his fingertips. He backed away from the gate he had been leaning against, his head throbbing with unspoken words, unsounded screams, unhampered anger, dampened only by time. He shuddered, slowly straightened as if it ached to move, and let his eyes flit to the smashed box of wire, glass, steel, and blood that was hanging from its former pedestal by a thread of frayed cable. 

He shook his head, stumbled away, cringing slightly at the sleep-hazed fog about his mind. 5:57--he needed to get home. 

Behind him, the dying box asked for his identity over and over again in bold neon-green-on-black letters before finally fizzling out. 

  
  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 


End file.
